


say you love me (even if everything is falling apart)

by MusicWritesMyLife



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drama, F/M, Minor Character Death, Multimedia, Romance, S/T Christmas Exchange 2016, fam jams, holiday fic, hospital stuff, some vaguley accurate medical stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8911351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicWritesMyLife/pseuds/MusicWritesMyLife
Summary: Sybil Crawley likes to think she has an ordinary life: a stable job, good friends, a great boyfriend. All of that is turned upside down when she’s caught kissing her boyfriend in a downpour. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact that her boyfriend is Tom Branson, star of ITV’s Voyager and resident teen-heartthrob.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the S/T Christmas Exchange on tumblr! Huge thanks to yankeecountess for organising the whole shindig and zip-goes-a-million for the lovely prompt! I've been dying to write a celebrity AU for something for ages so thank you for finally giving me an excuse to make those dreams come true!!!!
> 
>  **The prompt** : Tom is a famous actor, who is a teen heart-throb. He is going out with Sybil, who is a nurse/doctor. They want to keep their relationship out of the spotlight, which is going well until someone spots them a little too drunk and a little too hands-on with each other, and posts the photo online. It could make for a tense Christmas, or it could bring them closer than ever.
> 
> This story does feature death in a hospital setting. It isn't graphic, but emergency procedures are discussed and performed.

The night Sybil Crawley and Tom Branson meet in a bar, it’s raining.

Clichéd, she knows.

It’s a Friday night in September. Sybil has just started her residency at the University College Hospital and is still adjusting to being a _doctor_ and not a medical student. Coming off a ten-hour shift that included three car accident victims and a twelve year-old with end-stage leukaemia, the only thing she wants is to go back to her flat, put on her favourite flannel pyjamas and curl up in bed with a large glass of red wine and a film that promises lots of romance and happy endings and not the slightest hint of death. Unfortunately, she’s promised to meet Gwen for a few drinks at the end of her shift to celebrate the publication of her first freelance article in the _Daily Mail_ , so instead of getting on the Hammersmith & City line towards Hammersmith, she boards the train to East Ham (the first leg of a long trip to Greenwich) and tries to focus on the fact that she’s at least going to get several strong drinks out of this, even if they aren’t in the comfort of her own bed.

“You look like hell,” Gwen says cheerfully from behind the bar when Sybil shoulders open the door. The pub is quiet, even for a Friday night; Sybil wonders if it’s too early for most of the regulars to be out, or if the rain has kept everyone away.

Either way, she’s not complaining.

“I feel like hell,” she replies, dropping onto an empty barstool. Her bag slips off her shoulder onto the floor. She doesn’t make any effort to catch it. “Remind me why I wanted to become a doctor again?”

Gwen grins. “I can’t tell you that. But I _can_ tell you that there happens to be a single, good-looking man sitting at the other end of the bar who would _love_ to buy you a drink.”

Sybil groans. “Please tell me this isn’t the infamous Tom.”

Gwen has been trying for several months now to set Sybil up with her friend Tom, who is apparently, “absolutely perfect for you, you’ll love him”. Sybil is sure he’s wonderful—Gwen’s friends generally are—but she isn’t sure that she’s ready for a relationship. Admittedly, it’s been years since her last one ended, but work is so busy she hardly knows how she would have time to see someone on top of it.

“You can’t put off meeting him forever, Sybil. I promise he’s not a serial killer.”

Gwen means it as a joke, but it’s not far off from the truth—for all Sybil knows, he _could_ be a serial killer. Her best friend has been deliberately mysterious about this Tom, despite Sybil’s repeated attempts to pry more information out of her. 

“I’m not worried about him being a serial killer,” Sybil replies mildly, taking a long sip of her cider. It tastes like springtime, crisp and fresh, and makes her think of long rides across the parkland behind their old house in Yorkshire. “I only—”

“You only nothing,” Gwen says firmly. “You’re just making excuses. I promise, you’ll love him, and if you don’t, I won’t ever try to set you up with anyone again, yeah?”

Sybil smiles tiredly. “You seem awfully confident.”

Gwen raises an eyebrow.

“All right, yes, if you insist. I’ll meet him.”

Gwen glows. 

Tom doesn’t look up as they make their way down the bar. Sybil has to skirt the barstools left helter-skelter across the floor, taking care not to spill her drink. The worn planks beneath her trainers have seen enough abuse over the last hundred or so years since the pub opened, she thinks.

She wonders what kind of man he is. Gwen has good taste in men—people, in general, frankly—and while she’s always taken an interest in Sybil’s romantic life, she’s also respected her privacy; in fact, this is the first time she’s ever tried to set Sybil up with any seriousness, which makes Sybil think that maybe there is something to this mysteriously Tom after all.

Sybil and Gwen have been best friends since they were children. Gwen’s mum worked as a housekeeper for the Crawleys back when they lived at Downton, before her father’s firm went bankrupt and they had to sell it to the National Trust. The two of them used to play together in the afternoons until Gwen’s mum got off. Sybil often felt lonely, ostracised from other children her age, especially after she went off to boarding school with her older sisters, but Gwen always made her feel like she belonged. The highlight of Sybil’s year was summer holidays, because it meant she had unlimited time—barring dull social engagements, of course—to spend with her friend.

Their friendship continued throughout uni, even though they were at different schools, and culminated in their renting a flat together in Hammersmith after graduation. Gwen has stood by her through everything, and Sybil trusts her implicitly; if there’s anyone who might be able to find her proverbial Mr Right, it’s Gwen.

“Hiya Tom,” Gwen says cheerfully. “This is my friend I’ve been telling you about. Sybil, this is Tom.”

Tom turns with a friendly smile and Sybil immediately realises why Gwen has been so cagey about him.

He’s _Tom Branson._

Sybil chokes on her mouthful of cider.

(Really, she should know better than to take a drink right before being introduced to someone in case they _do_ turn out to be someone she sees on the cover of the _Daily Mail_ every morning on her way to work.)

Tom’s pleasant smile immediately slips into an expression of concern as Sybil coughs furiously, eyes streaming.

“I’m fine,” she says when she’s recovered her voice. “Just, you know, went down funny.”

“Right. Of course.” Tom smiles like he doesn’t believe her one bit but appreciates her effort nonetheless. He’s probably used to people reacting like this all the time and then fawning over him for autographs or something.

“Well.” Gwen looks entirely too pleased with herself considering they’ve only just met and Sybil has made a right fool of herself. “I’ll leave you to it then. Bates would have my head if I left the bar unattended.”

Sybil glances around. Apart from the elderly couple seated in one of the window booths, the pub is empty. Even if it weren’t she highly doubts Bates would be angry; the bar owner comes across as gruff, but he has a heart of gold underneath.

“Let’s start over, why don’t we?” she says, holding out her hand as Gwen disappears across the bar. She wasn’t lying—he is very good looking, but, of course, Sybil already knew that. “I’m Sybil Crawley. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Tom Branson.” His hand is warm, grip firm, and Sybil can’t quite suppress the thrill that runs the length of her spine. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

“I might have,” she confesses. Medicine has kept her quite busy for the last four years, but she’s always enjoyed indulging in a bit of good television when she has spare time. _Voyager_ is by no means top television—Mary thinks that it’s rubbish and can’t understand why Sybil would want to watch it at all. The plot can be a bit dodgy at times, but the overall story is quite compelling, and the characters are fantastic. Sybil, who has always been more interested in people anyways, really only enjoys it so much because the characters are so rich. Not hard on the eyes, either. She’s always been particularly fond of Tom’s character, Allen.

(Never thought she’d be having drinks with the man himself, but there’s a first time for everything.)

“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you either way. Gwen’s talked quite a lot about you without really saying anything.”

“She’s quite good at that, isn’t she?”

Tom smiles. It makes his eyes crinkle a little at the corners, softens them a bit. They are as incredibly blue in real life as they are on the television screen; Sybil wondered if he might have used contact lenses.

“I have to confess,” she continues, feeling emboldened by the alcohol and the fact that Tom is just so _nice_ , “that Gwen isn’t our only mutual acquaintance.”

“Oh really?” Tom’s eyebrows climb in surprise; Sybil remembers reading in an interview one time that he couldn’t raise just one, which had caused several rewrites to the script. She thought it was ridiculous at the time that they should fuss over such a little thing, but it’s quite endearing in real life. “Please don’t tell me we’re secretly cousins.”

Sybil laughs. She hasn’t got on so well with someone so quickly since—well, since she met Gwen. “No, nothing quite so drastic. My sister is married to your lawyer.”

The eyebrows climb higher. “You’re the third Crawley sister? I was beginning to think you might not exist.”

He’s teasing, but Sybil flushes, thinking about all the invitations to dinner parties she’s avoided because they might bring her in proximity of someone with such star power. Having met him now, part of her wishes she’d bucked up the courage earlier, but there’s something nice about the way it’s all come about. Normal. They’re just two people, meeting in a bar because their well-meaning friend has gotten it in her head that they’re meant to be.

“I, erm, don’t like the spotlight very much,” she says, fiddling with the hem of her cardigan. If she’d known this might have become a first date, she’d have made an effort to dress a little better: her jeans and Elton John concert T-shirt have seen better days. “I love my sister and Matthew very dearly, but I’ve had some bad brushes with the press and I just try to avoid it all, honestly. I just want to be normal, you know?”

Tom’s face falls. “I can understand,” he says quietly. “It’s very overwhelming.”

Sybil feels a flash of misery, like she’s somehow spoiled the night before it’s really gotten the chance to begin. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to put you off, I just— Well, I’ve buggered the whole thing, haven’t I?”

“No,” Tom replies hastily. He stares into his glass (scotch, perhaps?) for a moment before continuing. “I feel the same way, sometimes. Wonder what I might do with my life if I didn’t love acting so much. If it’s worth it to keep doing it, even if it means I have to push everyone in my life away.” He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I suppose, what I’m trying to say is that I understand. I’d just like to be normal, you know? Meet a beautiful girl in a bar, ask her for her mobile number so that maybe I can take her out to dinner sometime.”

Sybil smiles, tracing the rim of her glass with her index finger. She likes Tom very much. He’s handsome, kind, extremely intelligent if the papers are to be believed—apparently he has a PhD in political theory from Trinity College—exactly the sort of things she looks for in a man. Yes, he’s a teen heartthrob, but he’s a bit of a mystery to the press: they get shots of him on film sets, or doing promotional events, but his private life is by and large just that: private. He doesn’t speculate about his relationship status in interviews, and he’s never been publicly linked to anyone.

 _How would this be any different if Dad hadn’t gone bankrupt?_ a little voice in the back of her mind whispers. _They’d still be taking pictures of you at society events. You wouldn’t be as famous as Tom, but your’d be in the spotlight too._

Besides, Gwen wouldn’t go to all this effort to bring them together if she didn’t think they had a real shot of making it work.

“You know,” she says slowly, “I wouldn’t write that girl off just yet. Doctoring does keep one busy, but I’m sure she could find time for dinner. If you’re lucky, she might even cook.”

(She doesn’t, but Tom does. He has a lovely flat in Greenwich and he makes the best stew she’s ever tasted.)

* * *

 Trending:  #VoyagerFinale

                #Alena

 

 **Academy** @ITVAcademy **⋅** 6m

Who’s excited for the #seriesfinale? @TomBranson and @RoseMacClare1 will be live tweeting - send them your thoughts! #VoyagerFinale #Alena

                15.7k 14k

 

 **Kill Me Tom** @balloonslayer **⋅** 53s

@TomBranson @RoseMacClare1 what was the hardest scene to film this season? #VoyagerFinale

                2

 

 **Tom Branson** @TomBranson **⋅** 12m

And so it begins… #VoyagerFinale

                       7.9k    42k

* * *

 The trouble starts on Friday. Sybil hasn’t even been out of the doctor’s lounge three minutes when the doors to the ER are flying open and the gurneys are rolling in. Nurses are running, doctors are yelling—it’s chaos. It isn’t until lunchtime that she realises the victims were all from a bus accident in Soho. 

“I just feel like I’m on autopilot sometimes,” she says, dropping her head into her hands. “I love it, really, helping people, but the days are all starting to blend together. I don’t sleep enough, I can’t stop thinking about my patients— It’s taking over my life.”

Seated across the table, Thomas Barrow, head nurse and the closest thing Sybil has to a best friend at the hospital (which, really, amounts to someone with whom she can grouse about her job on a somewhat regular basis), snorts. “Darling, no one who wants a _life_ becomes a doctor. People aren’t going to start saving themselves just so that you can be home in time for Sunday dinner.”

“I know.” Sybil sighs heavily, tugging the elastic out of her hair and snapping it around her wrist. She threw it up in a hasty knot this morning when the casualties started rolling in; it’s been tugging at her scalp for nearly six hours and she’s got an awful headache. “The last few weeks have just been difficult. It’s nothing.”

It is nothing, really. Being a medical resident is hard, but she expected nothing less when she graduated two years ago. Most days, she loves the work: the challenge of diagnosing a patient and the satisfaction when they make a full recovery. Being able to go home at night knowing that she has saved lives, made a difference, gives her a purpose.

She’s just going through a rough patch. The holiday season is always hard: between illnesses and vacation days, the hospital is perpetually short-staffed. Sybil has volunteered for as many extra shifts as she can to help ease the load, and while the overtime paycheque is certainly a bonus, it comes at the expense of sleep. And free time. Christmas Eve is a week away and she still hasn’t finished her shopping.

Sybil’s phone vibrates. She tries to keep it out of sight while she’s working so that it won’t distract her, but she’s still got fifteen minutes left of her break—provided, of course, that there isn’t another emergency.

Tom

_13:01_

 

_We’re still on for tonight, yeah?_

 

Sybil sighs. Mary and Matthew’s holiday party is tonight. Tom has gone for the last few years because Matthew is his lawyer, as well as his closest friend, and while Sybil is always invited, she has never actually gone. Sometimes, she has had other plans, but most years she’s simply begged off. She always despised society parties, back when her parents still travelled in those circles; the idea of milling about a room making small talk with people who were really only interested in who she was wearing and how it measured up to their own wardrobes still makes her cringe. Mary and Matthew’s holiday party isn’t quite like that—neither Mary nor Matthew have time for the insipid pleasantries of high society—but the thought of chumming with so many people in the spotlight dredges up those same awful memories.

She’s sure if she were to go that it would be a grand time, so when Tom invited her to come with him this year, she didn’t hesitate to accept; he’s gotten it in his head, however, that she is only attending out of some favour to him and she can’t really blame him for thinking so, not when she’s declined so many invitations in the past.

 _Of course_ , she replies.

It isn’t that she regrets the invitation, she thinks to herself hours later as she does her makeup in the vanity mirror. She’s glad to be going, she only wishes it weren’t at the end of such a long day. Her feet are aching and she’s got a terrible headache—either from the noise in the ER or from one of the eight flu patients she treated—and she’d much rather put on her pyjamas and curl up in front of the telly than curl her hair, put on heels and rub elbows with all of Mary and Matthew’s nearest and dearest.

The only saving grace (other than Tom, of course) is the dress. She bought it at a charity shop a few weeks ago, though she’ll never say as much to Mary because she’d have to suffer through a lecture about ‘why you would even bother shopping in those places, darling, honestly’. It’s champagne coloured chiffon with an empire waist and straight, knee-length skirt and sweetheart neckline. The bodice is overlain with lace that falls into sleeves stopping just past her elbow. Paired with the blue-beaded Louboutin heels Mary bought her last year for Christmas that are outrageously expensive and _stunningly_ beautiful, she thinks she looks quite good considering an hour ago she was un-showered and in still in her scrubs.

“Wow.” Gwen whistles when Sybil steps out of her bedroom. She’s sprawled on the couch in her pyjamas, flipping through the Argos holiday catalogue. “Tom is going to lose his mind when he sees you.” She smirks. “I’ll be surprised if you make it to the party.”

“Shut up,” Sybil mutters, blushing. “It’s your fault for teaching me how to do that smoky thing with my eyes.”

“And I am so glad I did because you look _stunning_.”

“Are you sure you didn’t want to come?” Sybil asks. “Mary and Matthew would love to see you.”

Gwen smiles. “I’m sure they would but I’d hate to upstage you,” she teases, shrieking when Sybil chucks a dishtowel at her. “Besides, John is coming by later this evening.”

Sybil smirks. John Harding is a junior editor at the _Telegraph_. Gwen met him through a mutual acquaintance and they’ve seen each other frequently since—under the pretence of helping Gwen find a job with a news agency, but Sybil knows better. “Well then.”

Now it’s Gwen who flushes. “It’s not like that, Sybil,” she admonishes. “We’re just friends.”

Sybil is about to agree that they’re very friendly indeed when the bell rings. Gwen flies up off the couch in an instant, Argos catalogue forgotten.

“That’ll be Tom,” she hisses. “Go on. Answer it!”

(Sybil wonders sometimes who takes more pleasure in her relationship: her or Gwen.)

Neither Mary nor Matthew specified a dress code for the party, though Sybil has spent enough seasons in high society to know that no one in these circles will ever show up at a holiday party in jeans and an ugly Christmas jumper. That said, fabulous as her outfit might be, it’s certainly not red-carpet ready; she’s relieved to see that Tom’s black trousers, blue shirt and red jacket are similarly casual. (The red jacket is honestly a little ridiculous, but Tom is not exactly known for his fashion sense—his stylists are the ones that make him look so dapper on the red carpet; he confesses later that he wore it to be _festive_.)

Tom, predictably, is speechless.

“Hi.” Sybil’s cheeks are on fire, which is stupid because they’ve been together for a year now, but he’s looking at her like she’s his own personal Aphrodite and it’s a little bit too much to take. “I just need to grab my bag, come on in.”

He does, still speechless.

“Hiya, Tom,” Gwen says. She’s smirking, smugly, like a cat with a bowl of cream. “Nice jacket.”

“Thanks.” Tom seems to have finally come to his senses: he blinks twice, like a man emerging from a dream, eyes tracking Sybil’s movements across the room. She can feel his stare burning holes into her shoulder blades as she picks her clutch up off the kitchen counter. It’s tiny, blue velvet with beads. She bought it at Oxfam three years ago. Mary hates it.

She turns around and he’s suddenly right behind her. Her heart gallops painfully against her ribcage, jumping from normal to full throttle in a matter of seconds. His eyes are so _blue_. A year later and she can’t seem to get used to it. She still pinches herself sometimes because it’s hard to believe all of this is real.

“You look stunning,” he says softly, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture is incredibly intimate and also _sexual_ ; Sybil’s knees go a little weak.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she manages with a small smile.

His fingers brush against her bare shoulder as he helps her into her coat; the touch is like a shock straight to her core. They haven’t had sex in months because of his filming schedule and her work at the hospital and Sybil doesn’t have the faintest idea how she’s going to get through the evening. They haven’t even left yet and the temptation to drag him off to her bedroom and have her way with him is already overwhelming.

Gwen tells them to have fun, but “not too much”, with a teasing smile. Sybil kisses her on the cheek and thanks her.

Gwen laughs. “Whatever for? Apart from being an excellent flatmate, of course.”

“That, and making me look so nice. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish half of this if you hadn’t taught me all that stuff about hairstyling and makeup.”

Gwen blushes. “Well, I couldn’t send you out into the adult world without knowing how to do your own hair, could I? What kind of friend would that make me?”

“Well, I for one am glad you did,” Tom says. “Not,” he adds hastily when Sybil turns to him, affronted, “that you would look any less beautiful without it.”

“You’re right I wouldn’t,” she retorts, grinning at Gwen. “Have fun with John. I want to hear all about it when I get home.”

“We’re just friends!” Gwen shouts and Sybil is laughing as she closes the door.

There’s a car waiting out front. Sybil turns to Tom, eyebrows raised. “Pulling out all the stops, are we?”

He shrugs, cheeks pink. “It’s a fancy party.”

It is at that, and, on the whole, is a success. Sybil drinks far too much mulled wine, but it’s a Friday night and she’s got the whole weekend off _and_ it’s almost Christmas, so she lets herself indulge. She’s earned it. By midnight, she’s warm and tingling all over, the sore feet and headache forgotten.

Tom meets her in the foyer, half-drunk glass of brandy in his hand. He’s spent most of the evening talking to Matthew and their friend Henry, whom Sybil has seen in a few films recently and whom Tom know from _Revolution_ , and driving Sybil mad with his hand resting on her lower back. It’s taken a Herculean effort not to jump him right here and now; the only thing stopping her other than the thought of public ridicule is the knowledge that Mary will have a fit if they spill anything on her rugs.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

“I’m the one who should be asking you. I’ve been ready for ages.”

(It comes out more suggestively than she means but she isn’t about to take it back, not when Tom’s eyes darken and he drains the rest of his brandy in a single swallow.)

“Well, then. Can’t keep the lady waiting, can we?”

They stumble out into the night, arm in arm. The BBC’s week-long warnings of precipitation have finally come to fruition and what starts out as a light drizzle quickly turns into a downpour. Sybil and Tom have barely made it two houses down the road before the deluge begins; Sybil takes off with a shriek for the nearest entranceway. Tom follows her, breathless with laughter.

“Come now, Sybil,” he gasps, grinning. “A little rain never hurt anyone.”

“It’s _freezing,_ ” she retorts.

“Maybe you should have worn a coat.”

“Maybe you should have offered me yours.”

He smirks. “It clashes horribly with your dress.”

Sybil bites her lip to keep from pointing out that it clashes horribly with _everything_. “I hardly think that matters now,” she says instead. “The whole thing’s gone transparent.”

It hasn’t, not quite, but the rain makes it cling to her figure much more firmly that it did before.

“Mmm,” Tom rumbles, stepping closer.

“ _Tom_ ,” she hisses, placing a hand on his chest as he leans in towards her neck.

“Sybil,” he murmurs. His lips brush against her skin, gently, and every single one of her reservations crumbles.

The kiss is passionate. Her fingers thread through his hair and his hands are on her waist, dipping her backwards like they’re in the final shot of a sweeping romance. His tongue sweeps the edge of her mouth, cautiously, almost like he’s asking for permission even after all these years, and she yields, pushing fiercely against him. Her hand tightens in his hair and he groans softly into her mouth, something that might be a prayer or a curse. She bites his lip in response.

He pulls away slowly, until only their foreheads are touching. They’re both out of breath.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs.

“I’ll be right there with you,” she promises.

* * *

  **Daily Mail Celebrity** @DailyMailCeleb **⋅** 3m

BREAKING NEWS: #Voyager star Tom Branson caught snogging medical student outside holiday party. dailym.ai/5ghwxs

                     60k   89k

 

 **Tom Branson fans** @tombranson4ever **⋅** 1m

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO #TomIsTaken

      2       

 

 **allen’s slut** @baaaaaeb **⋅** 18m

@TomBranson has a girlfriend my life is over  #deadd #saygoodbyetoallmydreams #TomIsTaken

                       40 13

* * *

 (In hindsight, none of this should have been a surprise. Sybil knew exactly what she was getting herself into when she and Tom started seeing each other. She _hesitated_ (for a fraction of a second but a hesitation nonetheless) to get into all of this in the first place because she wanted to avoid another disaster like her father’s trial.

The last year has been one of the best years of her life. Tom is one of the best people she’s ever met in her life. He might even be the person she wants to spend the rest of her life with.

And yet, there’s a small part of her that wonders when the other shoe will drop.

It drops.)

* * *

  **Tom Branson Proves That Even Bad Weather Can Be A Turn-On**

Nothing will stop him from getting what he wants. 

by **anna chambers** December 15, 2016

**    **

It’s official.

Tom Branson is no longer single.

(If you’re crying uncontrollably, it’s all right. We all are.)

We can say that we saw it coming, that we weren’t surprised, but that would be a lie. Granted, Tom is a total hunk and is eager to settle down and have a family, but we were thinking like, five, ten years down the road. You know. Give us some time to adjust and all that.

Despite our best intentions, however, the day has arrived. Tom Branson has gone from being the Prince Charming we all dream of at night to the _actual_ Prince Charming of one very lucky girl.

In case you haven’t seen the pictures, Tom was spotted last night kissing a young woman in a doorway a few houses from his agent’s home in Knightsbridge, where he was attending a holiday party. Rumours are flying about the nature of their relationship, but since Tom wasn’t photographed arriving at the party and is notoriously private about his life off-camera, it’s safe to say he and his lady have probably been an item for a while.

(That kiss looks a little too passionate to be a first time, if you know what I mean.)

The lucky lady is none other than Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter of Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham and former head of Downton Law & Consultants, which has become a household name in the UK since it went spectacularly bankrupt eight years ago amidst allegations of bribery and fraud.

Since then, she has had virtually no media presence. And who can blame her? The Crawley trial had a huge media following and, coupled with her family’s financial ruin, it’s not a surprise she wanted to take a break from the spotlight for a while. The only trace she’s left on the Internet is an Instagram account that features artsy shots of landscapes and medical textbooks.

(Obviously, love of the outdoors is something she and Tom have in common. Cute hiking shots, anyone?)

Evidently, the couple wasn’t looking to have their photos splashed all over the covers of the magazines. They’re both intensely private people who seem to be doing everything in their power to keep their private lives out of the public eye. They just got caught up in the moment, and inadvertently gave us the scoop of the year. (Congrats on that, by the way.)

So, as our favourite British hunk and his lovely lady begin to navigate the waters of public relationships, all we can say is this:

Good luck. We wish you all the best.

(Maybe in twenty years, we’ll have forgiven you for crushing all our hopes and dreams.)

 

Source: _MTV.com_

* * *

Tom never meant for any of this to happen.

He never thought they could get away with it forever, of course, but he figured that when their relationship became public, it would be on their terms. He’s always been so careful about his private life, so desperate to maintain some shred of normalcy amidst the insanity of fame, that this goal always seemed feasible. He doesn’t get caught snogging his girlfriend in a doorway.

Right?

_Right._

None of this ever would have happened if it hadn’t been for the damned mulled wine. It’s a particular weakness of Tom’s and he’d let himself indulge in honour of the holidays. It was the first time he and Sybil had stepped out to anything resembling a public function in the year they’ve been together and she looked so beautiful, so lively… He felt invincible, he supposes. Euphoric. Like nothing could possibly touch them.

So when they’d stumbled out of the house in the pouring rain, both of them with too many glasses of wine between them, they hadn’t thought anything of indulging a brief moment of passion in a sheltered doorway. Something to tide them over before the long ride back to Greenwich.

Neither of them saw the lens.

It, however, saw them. The photograph is grainy, but their faces are unmistakable, blown up ten times larger on the front page of the _Daily Mail_ shoved through Tom’s mail slot.

 _CAUGHT RED-HANDED_ , the headline reads.

_Fuck._

Tom glances at Sybil’s still sleeping form, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. He needs to tell her about this, soon, so that they can come up with a strategy moving forward. In the immediate future: a strategy to get her home because she doesn’t have enough clothes at his flat to hide out there indefinitely and would never agree to it, besides. She looks so peaceful, however, cocooned amid his blankets, that he doesn’t have the heart to wake her just yet. Let her have a few minutes of peace before the madness begins.

Sybil’s mobile starts ringing at that very moment. Tom surges forward, horror clenching his gut like an icy fist, but Sybil is already rolling over blearily, used to waking up at a moment’s notice. She probably thinks it’s a page from the hospital. It might be, but Tom highly doubts it.

It isn’t: he can tell from the moment she says, “Hullo, Mary,” and then “ _What_?”

Her eyes meet Tom’s across the room, then slowly drift to the _Mail_ , still in his hand.

 _I’m sorry_ , he mouths.

“I see. All right. Yes, I suppose you should. Alright. Bye.”

There’s a deafening silence. Her face is so frightfully blank; she never calls upon what she calls her _society training_ much these days, but he suddenly realises what it must have been like for her when her father’s firm collapsed. _This_ is the Sybil Crawley the world saw in the papers, the one they’ll remember when they write all their stories.

It’s not the woman he loves.

(It breaks his heart.)

“So, it’s true then,” she says slowly.

He nods.

She gives a tiny moan and seems to collapse in on herself, mobile slipping from her hands. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

He did this to her.

It’s his fault.

Slowly, Sybil sits up again, combing a hand through her hair. She looks resigned and impossibly wearied, but there’s a fear in her eyes, a vulnerability, that makes his heart ache. He’s never seen her like this. Sybil Crawley is many things, but vulnerable has never been one of them.

She slides out of bed and shuffles to the kitchen. Tom reaches for her as she passes by; she catches his hand and squeezes it briefly, offering a half-hearted smile before continuing on her way.

“Mary and Matthew are on their way over.”

“Good.” They’re going to need to do damage control, and quickly, and Tom is rubbish at all that stuff. He’s rubbish at all of it actually, apart from the acting.

They lapse into silence as Sybil fills the kettle. Normally, it would be comforting, a morning routine they’ve been through a thousand times and that he’d like to go through a thousand more, but this morning the atmosphere is tense. Sybil keeps staring at her hands, and Tom stares at her, unable to think of a single thing that can make this better.

“You have to believe me, I never meant for any of this to happen,” he says desperately.

“I know,” Sybil replies. “It’s not your fault. We couldn’t have known.”

He can tell she means it, but her face is twisted in a grimace. She keeps staring on the tabletop. Tom can’t keep his eyes off it either; it lies there between them, steadily widening the chasm he can feel growing between them. He would do anything to stop it, anything to pull them back to where they were before, but it seems the harder he tries to hang on, the faster she slips away.

Maybe all she needs is time. This is obviously a lot to process, and it’s come as a terrible shock at the worst possible time. The implications on their relationship are serious, and they both need some time to think about what they want going forward.

(He doesn’t. He knows, deep in his bones that he wants to be with Sybil for the rest of his life, but he won’t begrudge her for having changed her mind—this wasn’t what she signed up for when they started all this, and he knows about her history with the media.)

In a few days, once they’ve had time to clear their heads, they’ll talk about what comes next.

Still, he can’t help the guilt that gnaws at his insides at the sight of Sybil’s face, at the way that her hands twists the hem of his t-shirt between her fingers (she’s never bothered to leave pyjamas here, not when they enjoy her wearing his clothes so much). He knows she just wants a normal life and he can understand why—her father’s trial was highly publicised and the media hounded her family relentlessly. This is her worst nightmare realised, only it’s tenfold because his star power is far greater than Robert Crawley’s ever was.

He should have been more careful. He should never have had so much to drink.

He _knows_ better.

A key turns in the lock. Sybil jumps, the little remaining colour draining from her face. Tom moves towards her instinctually, gently taking hold of her waist. It’s likely just Mary and Matthew, but he can pull her behind him at a moment’s notice if someone _is_ breaking down his front door.

“Thank goodness. You’re both up,” Mary says, breezing in the door with Matthew on her heels. Gwen trails behind them, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and black trackie bottoms. Her hair is combed back into a hasty knot on the top of her head; she looks as though she’s just gotten out of bed.

“We met in the hallway downstairs,” Gwen says by way of explanation as Mary crosses to the window, lifting the shade to cast a disparaging glance at the hoard of reporters outside. “Which is great, honestly, because otherwise I would have had to ring up for you to let me in.”

Sybil nods. Her fingers have abandoned the edge of Tom’s shirt in favour of his side, which they grip with bruising intensity.

“How bad is it?” Tom asks Matthew quietly.

Matthew sighs, draping his coat over the back of the couch. “Bad,” he says grimly. “But it could be worse. We managed to come in through the parking garage without upsetting them too much. I expect they’re looking for a statement and a few good shots of you now that—well, now that the cat is out of the bag.”

Sybil’s fingers dig deeper into Tom’s side. There’s a muscle jumping in her jaw, but her eyes are frightfully calm. “We aren’t saying anything, are we?”

“Of course not,” Mary snaps before Matthew can even open his mouth to respond. “They’re like vultures: feed them once and they’ll keep coming back for more. We can’t let them think they’ve got any kind of power over us.”

“Right.” She sags a bit, visibly relieved. “Okay.”

“There’s loads of them outside the flat,” Gwen says. “They don’t seem to know about the back gate, which is good because it means we can still come and go without being seen, though I don’t know how much longer that will last.”

“They’ll likely be outside the hospital too,” Matthew adds. “I’d maybe see about taking a few days off if you have any, Sybil.”

Sybil chews her bottom lip. Tom recognises the steely look in her eyes and knows what she’s going to say before the words are out of her mouth.

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“Sybil,” Mary says sharply. “I know that you value your independence, darling, I do, but this is nothing like last time. These photographers won’t be so respectful.”

Sybil flinches and Tom’s heart aches for her, but she stands her ground, and for that, he couldn’t be more proud. “I know, Mary. But it’s the busiest time of year at the hospital and they’re already understaffed. There must be another way.”

Mary’s pinched expression says exactly what she thinks about that idea.

“If Sybil wants to continue with her work, I think she should,” Tom says quietly. “This is hard enough to deal with without having to change your whole routine. Keeping things as normal as possible helps.”

“Not to mention it shows the press you’re not afraid of them. They’ve got less power if they feel like they can’t control you,” Gwen says. “Besides, with any luck, things will die down in a couple of days.”

Neither Matthew nor Mary look particularly convinced. Tom agrees with them; his experience with the media has never been awful by any stretch, but they are nothing if not persistent. A story like this isn’t the kind of thing that will die down in a few days. A few weeks maybe, or months, but not a few days.

He can only pray those few weeks won’t destroy the thing he loves most in the world.

* * *

Things are obviously not going to die down in a couple days because there are about a hundred reporters camped outside the ER when Sybil shows up for work Monday morning.

“I’m so sorry,” Sybil mutters to Thomas as she shoves her way through the doors, head bowed. Her eyes are burning from the popping of flashbulbs and there’s a lump in her throat that she can’t quite swallow. This is _exactly_ why dating Tom was a bad idea. After what happened with her father… She promised herself she wasn’t going to suffer through this again and yet, here she is.

“I’ll handle it,” Thomas replies, marching through the doors with a look that could freeze hell. It’s known around the ED as “Thomas the Terrible” and is reserved for terrifying medical students, dealing with disrespectful family members, and scaring the living daylight out of anyone who gets in the way of the seamless function of Thomas’ ER. He doesn’t say a thing about the fact that Sybil withheld the priceless gossip about her boyfriend being a star, for which she’s incredibly grateful. It’s already going to be hard enough facing patients when her face has been on the cover of every magazine in the country; she doesn’t need it from her coworkers too.

Even her coworkers aren’t immune to the media thrall, however. Heads turn as Sybil makes her way to the doctors’ lounge; she can feel what seems like a million pairs of eyes burning into her back all the way. She isn’t just Dr Crawley anymore. She’s become something else, an enigma of sorts. Everyone recognises her, and they all look at her twice, as if trying to reconcile the person they thought they knew with the person who is Tom Branson’s girlfriend. She wants to shout at them all that she’s the same, that there is nothing different about her dating Tom, that this ridiculousness is the reason they felt compelled to keep it a secret, but she knows it won’t do any good. It’s just like her father’s trial all over again: she’s become an object of fascination.

A hush falls over the doctors’ lounge when Sybil shoulders the door open. Three residents who she’s barely spoken to halt mid-conversation and stare at her like she’s some exotic zoo creature. Sybil can feel the blush burning across her cheeks, imagines all the things they’re thinking about her, the judgement they’re no doubt passing about her messy hair and sub-par fashion sense.

Someone coughs sharply.

“Haven’t you all got work to do?” Tom Bellasis, the head resident, asks mildly.

There’s a murmur of apologies as the residents make their way to the door.

“Thank you,” Sybil says quietly. She’s always liked him: he’s kind and honest and an excellent teacher. She’s glad that he’s on her side today of all days.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, smiling kindly. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re an excellent doctor, and as long as you keep performing admirably, I couldn’t care less what you do in your personal life. If they all do, it’s a sign of their immaturity.”

Sybil wants to say something, anything—another thank you, perhaps, or simply to let him know how much it means to have someone still see her as _herself_ even after all this—but is interrupted by her pager. Dr Bellasis' is going off too; he glances at it and curses quietly.

“Multi-vehicle trauma,” he mutters. “We’d best be going.”

The casualties are already rolling in when Sybil slips back into the ER. Thomas catches her eye from the other side of the room and jerks his head towards Trauma 3. She nods, pausing long enough to grab a pair of gloves before heading over.

The victim is a young man, only a few years older than Sybil. His face is covered in blood and there are shard of glass in his hair that glitter under the lights.

“Went straight through the windshield,” the paramedic is telling Dr Bellasis as she walks in. “No seatbelt. Wife says he unbuckled it for a second to get something from the back before they were rear-ended.”

His wife, who’s standing in the corner of the room, lets out a sob. Sybil turns to her, ready to offer some words of comfort or to ask a nurse to escort her to the waiting room because the last thing she should be looking at is her husband dying in a hospital bed, but any words of comfort she might have had to offer disappear when she catches sight of the woman’s face.

“Daisy?”

His wife turns to her, white-faced and throws herself into Sybil’s arms. “Sybil, oh my God, you have to help him, please,” she sobs. “We were just at the stop light and William reached back to get something and then someone drove right into us from behind, he didn’t even try to stop and William just went _flying_ …”

“I will,” Sybil says quietly, gently disentangling herself from Daisy’s embrace. She and Daisy shared a bathroom in their first year at UCL and shared a flat until Daisy moved in with her boyfriend, William. Sybil stood up for her at their wedding three years ago and they closed their restaurant for Tom’s birthday party last year. There aren’t, she’s convinced, sweeter people on the face of the earth.

A nurse ushers Daisy away as Sybil turns back to the task at hand. It makes her sick to her stomach to think that the person on the bed is _William_ , her friend. To think she was worried this morning about what people were saying about her while he was _dying_. It all seems so trivial now.

“How bad is it?” she asks, moving to stand beside Dr Bellasis. He’s examines William’s pupil and turns toward the heart monitor grimly.

“Not good,” he replies. “His pupils are sluggish; probably a massive brain haemorrhage, and his BP is lower than I would like. There’s bound to be internal bleeding.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think there’s much we can do for him besides make him comfortable.”

Sybil shakes her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “There has to be something we can do.” She can’t just watch him _die_ , not when she promised Daisy…

“Dr Crawley…”

“No. I know it’s a long shot, Dr Bellasis, but we have to try.”

Bellasis sighs. “I suppose—”

William’s heart monitor flatlines.

“We need a crash cart!” Sybil shouts as she slams her fist against the emergency button. It won’t do much good—anyone who’s in earshot is in here treating the patient; the alarm and the patient voice repeating _code blue, code blue_ will bring them what they need—but she can’t help but do it anyway, with the slim hope that someone will hear.

Dr Bellasis intubates quickly while Sybil starts compressions. Her stomach plummets when she doesn’t hear the telltale sound of ribs cracking; they must have already broken in the crash.

Her heart thunders ferociously in her chest with each compression. Edith accused her once of choosing emergency medicine because she craved the adrenaline rush, but Sybil wouldn’t wish this frantic terror on anyone. It’s only compounded by the fact that this is _William_ , that Daisy is out in the waiting room, counting on Sybil to save her husband’s life.

“Charging to 200.”

Sybil blinks. Thomas has arrived with the crash cart and is hovering over William’s chest, paddles poised. She lifts her hands, heart hammering in her throat.

“Clear!”

William’s body lurches. The heart monitor continues to flatline. Sybil can taste bile in her throat, but she launches back into compressions as Thomas charges the paddles again. “300!”

“Clear!”

Nothing.

“Come on,” Sybil mutters frantically. Her arms are burning from the compressions, but she’ll be damned if she lets him die. He’s too young. He and Daisy were thinking about having children.

It’s not fair.

“It’s no use Dr Crawley,” Dr Bellasis says. “He’s gone.”

Sybil shakes her head, tears burning in her eyes. “Not yet. There’s still—”

“Sybil.” Thomas takes hold of her elbows, his touch incredibly gentle. “Let him go. It’s over.”

“I—” She knows deep down that they’re right, she’s seen it too many times before, but it’s _William_. He’s her friend. He’s her age. He’s barely lived and this was all a horrible accident.

“Time of death,” Dr Bellasis says, “9:31.”

Sybil sobs. 

(The press swarm her when she leaves the hospital hours later, tear tracks on her cheeks. They shout at her about her relationship with Tom and whether or not they’ve broken up, but all she can see is the look on Daisy’s face when they told her William was gone.)

* * *

When Gwen rings him, Tom figures she’s seeing how he’s holding up. Then, as he fumbles with his phone, he’s seized by a momentary panic that she’s going to tell him that Sybil’s decided she needs more space, needs to get away from all this for a while, and that he should stop leaving her pathetic voice messages promising that everything will be all right. (He’s only left two, but he’s spent the day staring at his mobile, waiting for her to respond. It’s taken all his willpower not to call her more than that.)

Heart in his throat, Tom says, “Hello?”

“Hey, Tom.” Gwen’s voice is tight, concerned. Tom can picture her pacing the floor of the tiny break room at the pub—she showed him in there once after he was recognised by a couple girls—mobile pressed to her ear, the way she does when she’s stressed. She’s never been able to sit still, even when she isn’t fretting about something. “This may seem like a silly question, but you can get places without being seen, right? Like if you wanted to dodge the press or something.”

“Yes,” Tom says slowly. “Gwen, what’s going on?”

She sighs. He can see her in his mind’s eye, chewing her lip nervously. Her hair’s probably coming out of its usual French braid, and, as usual, she probably couldn’t care less. Whatever this is about, it’s serious.

“Gwen?”

There’s a deep inhale on the other end of the line before the truth spills out in a rush: “Sybil’s in a bad way. She lost a patient at work today, someone she knew, and well, with all this, she’s not taking it very well. She’s locked herself in her room and she won’t come out.” Gwen pauses. “She needs you, Tom.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. Doesn’t think for a second about how he’s going to pull this all off or what might happen if he doesn’t. “I’m on my way. Are you at home?”

“Yeah. I was supposed to go in to work, but I figured I’d better take the night off, you know, in case she wanted someone to talk to after work. I didn’t imagine it was going to be like this.”

“Okay.” Tom takes a deep breath, fighting the panic rising in his chest at the thought of Sybil locked in their tiny, shared bathroom. “Stay with her. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

It doesn’t quite take a miracle, but it’s a very near miss; Tom all but begs Matthew to drive him over—“No, there’s nothing wrong, nothing serious, no need to disturb Mary, I just need to talk to her. It’s important.” He slips out of the car a block north of the flat, cutting his way through the park where Sybil likes to jog in the mornings before work and through the door into the back garden, saying a silent prayer to God that Sybil’s building backs directly onto the park. Then, it’s just a quick jog up the steps to their terrace and he’s rapping on the back door, fingers stiff from the cold.

Gwen answers immediately, mobile phone still clutched in her hand. “Tom,” she breathes, pulling him into a quick, tight hug. “Thank God you’re here.”

“Is she—?” Tom nods towards in the direction of Sybil’s room.

Gwen nods.

He knocks softly on the door.

There’s something that sounds like a hiccup, or maybe a sob—like she’s trying to pull herself together. “I’m fine, Gwen.”

“It’s Tom, love.”

Silence.

“Tom?” Her voice is thick, tremulous, but the sobs have stopped. “What are you doing here?”

 _I came because you needed me_ , he wants to say. _I’ll always come when you need me_. But the last few days have been so tumultuous that he doesn’t know where they stand anymore. He prays that she still wants him the way he wants her, that this isn’t too much, but he doesn’t want to push her away.

“Gwen told me you had a bad day,” he says.

“I—” Her voice catches in her throat and his fists shake with the effort not to break down the door and take her in his arms. “One of my friends came in today. Car accident.” Her voice is rising, higher and strangled. She’s teetering on the edge of hysteria. “They were stopped at a traffic light and he undid his seatbelt for a moment to get something out of the backseat and their car was hit from behind. He went straight through the windshield. Massive internal bleeding and cranial trauma. He crashed and we—we—”

“Sybil.” Tom rests his hand against the door. “Darling, _a ghrà_ , open the door.”

“His wife was there in the room—Daisy, you know Daisy, she and William rented out their restaurant to us on your birthday and Albert made those delicious soufflés that Matthew couldn’t stop eating—and I promised her that I wouldn’t let anything happen to him because they were getting ready to start a family, but he crashed and I couldn’t—I tried—”

“Sybil.” There’s a lump in his own throat that he can’t quite swallow. He didn’t know William very well, only met him and his wife that one time, but he remembers that they were so kind, that they bent over backwards to help Sybil give him a normal birthday party. “ _Please_. Open the door.”

He’s wondering what he’ll do if she doesn’t let him in—will he have to go in through the window? Will she send him away?—when the lock clicks. She doesn’t open the door, but the knob twists easily in his palm and there she is, standing in the middle of the room with her back to him, shoulders shaking as she fights to hold back sobs.

He crosses the room to her in two strides and turns her gently, pulling her into his arms. Her eyes are swollen, cheeks streaked with tears; he barely catches a glance before she buries her face in his chest, sobbing.

“Oh, darling,” he whispers, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “Oh, love. I’m so sorry.”

“It was awful,” she stammers. “I tried to bring him back, I tried, but he was gone.”

“I know, love. I know. You did everything you could. It’s horrible, it’s not fair, but you did your best.”

“And after, all I could think about was what if it had been you on the table and I was the one in the waiting room and I hadn’t gotten the chance to say goodbye, or tell you that I loved you, or—”

“Hush, love.” He presses his lips to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. His own vision is blurred with tears, for the friend he never quite had, but mostly for the pain of the woman in his arms. He’d bear it a hundred times over if he could. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not ever if you don’t want me to.”

Maybe it’s too much, maybe he’s pushing too hard before they’ve had the chance to talk about where they’re going to go, but he loves her and he’s not going to watch her suffer, not if he can do something about it. He won’t lie to her about how he feels, not now, not ever.

He doesn’t know who moves first: they lean together like planets drawn into orbit. Her lips are wet and taste of salt, but he couldn’t care less; what matters is that she’s in his arms, that she’s here, that everything between them isn’t falling apart—for now, at least.

They pull apart eventually, but stay close. Tom relishes the feeling of being able to hold her again; Sybil, he thinks, thrives on the comfort, the support after a long day.

“I think there are going to be loads of stories in the tabloids tomorrow about us having been broken up,” she says quietly, pushing her hair from her face.

The thought of Sybil trying to fight her way through crowds of rabid tabloid photographers after such a horrible day makes him feel awful. He brought this upon her.

“I’m sorry, Sybil, I’m so sorry—”

“Please don’t apologise,” she says softly. Her hand rises to cup his cheek. “I don’t regret a single moment of the time that we’ve spent together. You must know that. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

Her words are like a balm to his soul, the words he’s been praying to hear for days now, but still, he hesitates. It almost seems too good to be true. “Sybil…”

“I want to be with you,” she says firmly, wiping tears from her cheeks. “And if that means that my life is going to be tabloid news until I die, then so be it.”

“Well, it won’t be _all_ the time. Just, you know, the odd Sunday.”

Sybil lets out a strangled sound that might be a laugh or a sob. “Well, I think we can manage that.”

* * *

 When Tom suggests they spend the holidays with his family in Ireland, Sybil is half-asleep and still reeling from the emotional trauma of the day before. She says yes, but it isn’t until they’re on the private jet Matthew has requisitioned for them that it occurs to her she’s actually _agreed_ to this. Christmas. In Ireland. With Tom’s family.

She spends the whole flight frantically chewing her cuticles and trying not to think about what Tom’s family will think of her.

Halfway across the ocean, he covers her hand with his own, a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Relax, love,” he says softly. “Mam already loves you, and the rest of them will too. I know it.”

She wishes she had half his confidence, or that the media weren’t quite so busy airing all her dirty laundry.

He’s right, of course. They’re met at the airport by Tom’s brother, Kieran, who drives them home in his battered, green Peugeot. Tom’s whole family has assembled in his mother’s drawing room, ready to greet them with warm smiles and hugs and gentle ribbing about the fact that it took so long for Tom to introduce her. 

His mother pulls her aside as Tom takes their cases upstairs and tells her firmly that she needn’t worry about anyone tipping off the press while she’s here because—“It’s a small town, and everyone’s known Tom since he was a wee lad.”—but otherwise, they don’t mention it. She’s welcomed into the family as if she’s always been there: she helps make dinner and plays with Tom’s nieces and nephews and they all gather around the fire in the evening to sing Christmas carols—Tom’s brother and sister are both musicians. It’s the best Christmas Sybil’s ever had. 

“Do you think you could get used to it?” Tom asks quietly as they’re curled by the fire on Christmas morning, watching his nieces and nephews unwrap their gifts with squeals of glee. “Being an actor’s wife?”

The look of horror on his face when he realises his slip is comical; Sybil bites her lip to keep from laughing. 

“I think I might,” she says softly, kissing his cheek. They aren’t ready for marriage yet, not for a while, but when the time does come, she knows he’s the one. 

“I love you, _a ghrà_ ,” he whispers into her hair. “And nothing anyone says or does will ever change that.”

Sybil presses her face into his chest, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. “I love you too. Always.”


End file.
